Inked
by I'm Nova
Summary: Rewrite of the series (going off canon after Hiatus) within a soulmates AU. Having your soulmate's name inked on your skin doesn't make life easy in any way. M to keep my options open, but I don't know if I'll earn it. Third installment for the Let's Write Sherlock trope bingo challenge, prompt soulmates.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine. _

_A.N. I adore this AU and I can only hope that I will do it justice. The Dark Wave theory(not with such a name) I found on Tumblr a long time ago. If you know who it belongs to, let me know and I will give proper credit. _

The Holmes marriage is the thing of fairy tales.

When people reach puberty, on their wrists appears a name. It is the name of their soulmate, the one person in the whole wide world who could give them perfect happiness. Their one destined love. Not everyone finds it. Most never do, in fact. It would be weird, if pairs were always born next door, or even in the same nation. It is sad, in a way, but it is half of a blessing.

When your soulmate dies, the name will blur to a shapeless blob. It doesn't mean anything – unless you found them already. If you bonded, touching name to name, and one of you dies, the other won't be late in following.

Richard Holmes' name read "Shéherazade", and that would have been enough for most to decide finding her was impossible. Not Holmes, though. He went into politics and managed to become a diplomat, because where was he supposed to find a Shéherazade in England? Damascus, now that's more likely. He finds her in Paris at the end, instead, but that's beside the point.

Their mother insists on giving both her offsprings the weirdest name she can think of. It won't matter who their significant other is. Her children won't have to worry, to wonder, not even to search. Their soul mate will only have to pick a phone book to find them, because really, how many Mycroft will be out there?

...Now if only My wasn't so keen on secrecy and security and being unreachable, in all senses of the word, mom's plan would have gone a lot better. If Mycroft hadn't been left alone to deal with a difficult (to be polite) little brother _because_ their parents were soulmates, the exact reason mom followed so swiftly after dad's accident, perhaps he wouldn't loathe the very concept of soulmates so much – and love too, for good measure.

A teen Sherlock isn't so much against it. Actually, having someone not despise him would be great, and he thinks a soulmate should guarantee that at least. Now, if only the name wasn't the only data he had. Or said name wasn't so desperately common. John, really? There are way too many around, and most of them concur with the rest of the populace: Sherlock is a freak.

The continuous cycle of meeting – _hope _(vicious, vicious hope) – reciprocal verbal abuse – disappointment is nothing but wearing. He decides he's not interested in searching, when he has no way to find. He has better things to do (even when he doesn't because high, or bored is still better than disappointed). He locks his emotions away at the best of his ability and promptly loses the key to that room of his mind palace.

John's name is a puzzle. Because, really, what is Sherlock? Nobody ever heard of a name like that. They don't even know if it is supposed to be a girl's name or a man's. Watson senior, though, decides it is a female name. "God can't hate me so much as to want our family to wither away," he proclaims once, when John is 15 and his sister 17.

"Clara and I might have a child, you know. With a donor," Harriet points out angrily.

"Having a third someone's intervention is not right. We wouldn't have our soulmate's name revealed to us if these things were meant to be," her father objects. He's one of these who believe the names are God's will, and takes it very seriously.

There are some other explanations. John loves the one which says that particles side by side during the Big Bang aim to reunite, and that the naming process sends some sort of wave that influences them to take a shape. It's called the Dark Wave theory, since there's no actual proof yet. He knows better than to say it at home, though.

Henry Watson – his father – likes to think that he's obeyed God's will and found his soulmate, though reality later will prove him wrong. A homonym – it happens often. People settle with the first Mary, or Tom, or whatever that they can stand and fool themselves into thinking that they are one of the lucky few to have their soulmate by their side.

"I'm sure Sherlock is a lovely girl, dad," John says, trying to appease. He's never looked at a man twice anyway. Shouldn't he have been interested in one already if his soulmate was a man?

"Pity that you won't ever find her," Harriet hisses, venomous as always when John, in her opinion, plays daddy's good boy.

"Why?" he replies, hurt. He wants his Sherlock. Very much.

"I'm pretty sure that isn't an English name," she states triumphantly.

"You might have a point, dear," their mother agrees.

"Mom!" John protests.

"It sounds Swedish to me. Or Norwegian, maybe. You might still find her, you know. A tourist, or someone on a study trip. Would you like one of these blond beauties, love?" their mother ponders.

John grins. He'd like one very much.


	2. Chapter 2

_A.N. I'd like to say sorry to Victor Trevor. Really I am, but still unrepentant. Disclaimer: nothing mine. Conan Doyle and BBC share the rights. From next chapter I'll follow the series adding people's feelings. Just letting you know – hope that's okay. _

University is horrible. Everyone hates Sherlock, and he despises everyone in turn. It's not his fault that people can't stand truth. It's totally unreasonable for his peers to get angry at him for outing their actions. They should not do things they're ashamed to admit, instead.

The only boy whom Sherlock grows attached to is Victor Trevor. Victor accosts him first, well...Victor's dog, and while for a moment Sherlock thinks the dog was sicced on him, Victor is so sorry and kind that he discards the hypothesis. Amazingly, Victor never reacts badly to Sherlock being...well, Sherlock. It's so unusual that Sherlock starts to devise ways to know Victor's full name, hoping there might be a John somewhere. The simplest way would be to ask Mycroft, but Mycroft would immediately read Sherlock's silly, fanciful hopes, and try to set his little brother's straight. He's not in the mood for a lecture.

He gets way worse than a lecture, though. He has it so bad (his emotions leak steadily from the door he's closed them behind) that he actually misses Victor every second they aren't together, and searching for him once he stumbles on something. Something he should have deduced long ago, really. But he was too pitifully eager to have someone to question the whys and hows like he should have. And here Victor is, _with Mycroft_, pocketing money and discussing a pay raise because really, Sherlock is just that unbearable. Sherlock doesn't interrupt them, but when Victor comes by later, he bits out that he hopes Victor saved his income, because Sherlock doesn't want to be a burden anymore, he doesn't want to see Victor – at all – and that means Mycroft won't continue to pay him. Victor – Trevor doesn't try to deny anything, at least. He looks equal parts miffed (for the lack of ulterior money, no doubt) and relieved to have been discovered, actually. He won't need to pretend anymore.

Sherlock dabbled with drugs, but after Victor, he starts using heavily. He needs the distraction (Sherlock _can't miss him_). Reality is simply too awful to face. He drifts off. Off university. Off everything. He spends awhile on the streets, then Mycroft finds him and packs him to rehab. Sherlock escapes. He's on the streets again, making friends with the other homeless people.

And then, high as a kite, he stumbles on a crime scene, and solves it. It's obvious, really. But solving it – it's a rush. He likes it. He locates Lestrade again. The man, if half-heartedly, drives him away because he can't allow a junkie on a crime scene. Spiteful, Sherlock goes to do _more _drugs and overdoses (accidentally, he swears). Billy, who likes the boy entirely too much (you simply can't get attached to clients in his line of work), and hears him out when he's raving, manages to contact Mycroft. It saves his life.

Mycroft knows all (of course, the git), and together with Lestrade – who will take all credit for the idea – they arrange for Sherlock to be allowed to consult...as long as he's clean. Sherlock does not escape from the next rehab. As long as his brain is stimulated, he can pretend the rest of him does not exist at all – like he needs. And if he starts a website, it's just so that he can get clients. More cases. Boredom is toxic to him. Not because that way, if _John _writes 'Sherlock' on Google, he'll get the consulting detective's mobile phone number. Not at all.

When he's at uni, John discovers that Sherlock is not a Scandinavian name. Selda says so, and she should know. She's not just Norwegian, she loves literature, and even in more archaic poems, she's never read the name. She has no reason to lie. She's on holiday in England, John is not her name, so it's not like she wants to keep him. They're still having a great time together. She's a true friend (with definite benefits) and so only half joking John asked her if she had a friend named Sherlock. That aroused her curiosity and ultimately brought John to the revelation. No blonde beauty on sight anymore for John, sadly.

He needs to reevaluate. John ponders about his mysterious name, researches a bit, and comes up with a new hypothesis. (He still finds no trace of such a name anywhere.) Maybe it's Korean. Their names are usually two-sillables long, easily sound strange if one's not used to them, and half the time how to write them in our alphabet is up for debate. Sherlock might very well be a variant of transliteration, and that's why he has never seen the name come up in his searches. Maybe if he searched Ser-look or something of the sort he'd find the name, at least. He doesn't search any variation of it, though. After all, it would only add to his frustration if he didn't find, and he hasn't enough imagination to guess what the correct form might be, or why it's written like this on his wrist. Maybe he'll mishear the name the first time and this is what he'll understand? If he finds her, of course. If she's on the other side of the world, the chances of that are beyond low. Still, John dreams of finding her. He's a romantic. There are worse flaws, if it even is one.

He knows it won't be easy, though, or happen soon – barring lucky serendipity, and he's never been much of a lucky person. Until then, he can have the next best thing. If not his destined romance, adventure. He signs up for the army. He can be useful there. Actually save lives, instead of diagnosing colds.

And it'll put some distance between him and his family. Harry has found Clara – well, _a _Clara – and has settled down with remarkable swiftness. He's happy for her, really. He wishes nothing more than for her to have really found her soulmate. But knowing that her childish taunts were true – that he's not likely to find his someone – hell, even someone he can _pretend _is his destined love...It makes her blatant happiness sting. So, if the army brings him away from family dinners, Harry and Clara and dad's pitying looks because no Sherlock is still in sight, it's a bonus. He should pay them to be saved from such awkwardness. From his own fleeting doubts, sometimes, when he's depressed, that he has no soulmate at all and Sherlock is just random gibberish.

He'll work, and fight, and fuck every pretty girl who's not _Her –_ will never be _Her –_ but damn if John isn't going to have as much of a fun time as he can. Until getting shot at becomes being shot, and John's pleading with God to survive, because he hasn't found her yet and he wants to. He doesn't want Sherlock's name to blot and her to know she's now all alone in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

When he's sent back to England, John finds out that everything has gone downhill. Dad is dead. Harry and Clara have divorced – well, Harry left her. "She wasn't my soulmate, Johnny. I knew from the start, but...she was a Clara, and you know how dad could get. She didn't stand me, lately," his sister whines. John lets her. He doesn't have answers to that. But he knew Clara, and he has a feeling that what she couldn't stand wasn't Harry but her drinking habit (Harry's not just drunk right now – John's a doctor, he knows the signs). Knowing that his sister used poor, gentle Clara to keep dad at least half-content and ditched her when she complained about her drinking...it might be his sister, but he doesn't like Harry very much. She pushes the mobile phone into his hands. She wants to stay in contact. She'd like him to stay, full stop, but she needs help, and he can't be the one to provide it right now. He needs help too. He's broken. Together, they'd be a disaster waiting to happen.

John almost walks past Mike Stamford. He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want people who knew him before to see the thing he's become now. The cripple. The surgeon with trembling hands. (Not a surgeon anymore. Not a soldier. What is he, exactly?) But he can't accelerate and walk past Mike. His leg rebels to it. So, a few clipped words it is. Mike and his pretence to know him (he doesn't know himself anymore). His sensible, helpful suggestions. Like he could fix John's life for him. John hates that. But then – there is mirth at some secret joke John isn't sharing, and he wants to. He agrees to see the man. He wouldn't get a flatmate. Of course not. But it couldn't hurt, could it?

And then John meets him. His first thought it's that he's an actor. Maybe one who needs to play some sort of medical role and is here harassing true medical practitioners as a result. He's surely pretty enough to be one. John is helpful on reflex, almost before he catches himself doing it, offering his mobile phone. Without even looking at him, as if he's not interested, this man asks, "Afghanistan or Iraq," and given that Mike hasn't gone past his name introducing him how does he know? And Mike is smiling his knowing smile all the while. John is unpleasantly surprised – not what he wants to discuss now – but then the stranger repeats the question, and John has no reason to withhold information, so he doesn't. He asks where that question came from, though.

But it doesn't seem that he ranks very high, because his question goes blatantly ignored. And it's not just the pretty girl's interruption and the most weird lines of...that doesn't even qualify as flirting that John has ever heard. Maybe this man will accept pointers? He is, after all, Three-Continents Watson.

The matter is that this man likes throwing John for a loop, because he's talking about violins. And then finally John starts catching up and understanding, because they're talking of flat sharing which is why he's there. So Mike must have warned him, but he swears he hasn't, and if he didn't have his mobile phone, met John outside and brought him with him he's probably right too.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asks because what is this man, a psychic?

Apparently it was bloody self-evident, as the man explains. John supposes it is, when told like it. But there's one thing that's bugging him still.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" he asks again.

And again, he's ignored (and isn't that absolutely rude?). Instead, he's told that the man already is considering one specific place and that he'll do. Then, with one last outrageous remark about a riding crop, of all things, the stranger is about to run away.

"Is that it?" John queries sternly. Because it doesn't make any sense. He doesn't even know the name of this man. Just that he's rude and evasive...no, enigmatic. Hardly conducive to wanting to room with him, as the stranger seems to assume he'll consider doing.

It brings the man back to him, at least. And when John says – implies, really – how surreal all this is, his potential flatmate has the gall to challenge him with a, "Problem?"

Honestly, this man is incredible. And Mike is still smiling. Enjoying the show, as it were. Damn. John points out everything he doesn't know – everything he should know, to even start to take in consideration flat sharing – and for the first time, this man looks at him. Really, really looks at him. Like he's a specimen of some sort and the other a scientist, maybe, and it's slightly unnerving, but he's a soldier. He won't get scared being stared at.

Then his flatmate to be is spouting details of his life (and of Harry's life, though he gets the sex wrong) that he has absolutely no business knowing. Things he hasn't told Mike. Things he hasn't told anyone since he's back but his therapist, and he's pretty sure Ella hasn't leaked it to this impossible man. So how does he know?

The git has the gall to goad him, because what else is saying, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Yes, this man knows John better than most. Better than he has any right to, in fact, but it doesn't resolve the problem of John's ignorance.

The bastard does his exit, but then apparently seems to remember that John can't meet him because he doesn't know bloody where. He comes back and underturns John's world with a few words. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He winks – actually winks – and leaves, courteously leaving John to have a panic attack in peace.

Mike is all sympathy. "He's always like that," he says, as if John had just been overwhelmed by this man...Sherlock's...outrageous attitude. But now his words are on loop inside John's head. "The name's Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock..." It's the first time John is sure this is an actual name. And there's an impossible man bearing it. Oh Christ. What is he supposed to do? Beside go to look at that flat. That's a given.

For a fleeting moment, John is happy that his dad is already dead, because telling him that he's finally found his male soulmate would have given him a coronary anyway. He leaves Bart's quickly. Retire and regroup. How can he start a romantic relationship with a man if he's never been attracted to one? Yes, Sherlock is not a normal man by any stretch of the imagination, he's known him ten minutes and he's already sure. If he has to have an exception to the rule, at least it's an exceptional individual in all the senses. But it means he's ill prepared to deal with this. Why had he ever assumed Sherlock would be a female, beyond pleasing dad? That was so silly of him. Is it even possible to botch up the relationship with one's soulmate? John doesn't want to find out.

Curious about Sherlock, he types "Sherlock Holmes" and finds The Science of Deduction. The claims on the site are simply absurd, because identifying a pilot from his left thumb is clearly preposterous. But he still doesn't know how Sherlock knew about Afghanistan, or Harry's drinking. And who classifies 243 types of tobacco ash? What purpose can it possibly serve? ...And why wasn't this site up before he signed up for the army? He'd have called. Met him before. Maybe settled, skipping all the mindless relationships and the getting shot.

Perhaps it's the mention of deduction in the site name, or the fact that he'd assumed wrongly before, but now that he's imagining getting comfortably settled with Sherlock and maybe married later on he reminds himself suddenly and sharply that this is a Sherlock, not necessarily his Sherlock. That time in Italy when a girl had accosted him, interceding for a date with her shy friend Andrea and John had agreed, only to discover that in Italy Andrea was a male name returns unbidden to his memory. Sherlock could be an English male name and a Korean female name. He'll have to see, won't he?

Sherlock hates it. He shouldn't react like this. He should have given it up as a bad job decades ago. Still, hearing Mike say, "It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," causes a racket inside the mind palace. Teenager Sherlock, who accidentally got locked in with his emotions in the attic long ago, tries to lockpick the deadbolt and let himself out. Let all the feelings out. Luckily his hands shake with all the emotional turmoil he's permanently going through, and he doesn't manage. Sherlock still hears him, though. "Oh please, let this be the one. Let him be my John. John? John? Please, John!"

Sherlock barely looks at this John. He keeps himself occupied – with the case, with anything at all – even while he talks with him. And to shut his teen self up, he deduces John. He expects an immediate, strong adverse reaction as usual – proof that John is not _his John_. Instead, John is apparently too shocked to react properly. Sherlock runs away before he can make John change idea about taking a look at 221B by being himself – he does need a flatmate, even a temporary one. Teen!Sherlock, trapped as he is, manages to hijack control of transport for a second, for the first time in years. The wink is a lamentable instinct Sherlock should have never acted upon, but he has and there's no rewriting time. And now he's going to meet John at 221B and hopefully persuade him to share the flat, and if he's lucky he won't be making a fool of himself in the process.

That isn't so probable, because John and he haven't exchanged more than two lines and he's already rambling – about Mrs. Hudson's case, but anything would do, honestly.

John likes the place, likes even the flat, but he doesn't like Sherlock. Or his byproducts. Soldier, why didn't Sherlock deduce that he wouldn't stand his mess and tidy up in advance. He makes a half-hearted attempt, but it's too little too late. And he notices the skull next, and what if it's all too freaky for him to stay? But his finances are tight enough that he won't pass this chance up. He'll stay – a little bit. It scares Sherlock how bad he wants John to stay. It's not the name. He's just too lonely these days, he tells himself – not that he'll ever admit it to a living soul.

And Mrs. Hudson is asking whether they'll need two rooms. (She doesn't know his name, does he? He covers it up all the time – it's only proper, and it's about the only proper thing he does.) And John replies, "Of course," quite poignantly too._ Of course_. He's not Sherlock's John. No point daydreaming. When their landlady continues about the matter and John looks at him for support, he can't make himself say they're nothing. Even if they are. It's silly. He doesn't care what others think of him. It's true, and that's what he'll tell if John asks an explanation of such behaviour. But the truth is – something _clicked _inside Sherlock when he met the army doctor (and it scares him half to death) and he's behaving like every ordinary fool out there, pretending if only to himself someone is his soulmate even if he's wrong. He should want John to be out of his life before he can ruin it any further – and he doesn't. He fiercely doesn't.

But then John mentions looking him up, and it pleases him. John is interested in him. It's nice. He mentions the blog, and Sherlock preens. His blog is good. His blog isn't freakish, it has helpful informations that would allow people to deduce things too, if only they bothered to read it. But John doubts his deductive abilities, his tone clearly disbelieving. Why would he? Sherlock, defensive, points out that he's deduced him – and his brother too, from that mobile phone.

John asks how, he's interested. He could be outraged remembering that Sherlock stripped him of his privacy with nonchalance. Instead he wants to know. It does not conform to known patterns. It's so much better. He smiles – he can't help to – and he would explain, but then Mrs. Hudson interjects. It's like they were in their own bubble, and she destroyed it. He won't get it back, because Lestrade is coming up. And isn't it great? Finally a case. A serial killer case. It's brilliant. It's Christmas. And yet, there's a part of him that finds leaving John to deal with the likes of Anderson positively distasteful. But there's nothing to be done for that, right? This is a case he won't absolutely pass up. The police are floundering without him, and there's a serial killer to catch. John and his deviations from the norm will be still at 221B for him to study when he gets back.

Sherlock already has a foot out of 221B's door, when he realizes that he doesn't necessarily have to deal with Anderson. His flatmate has a scientific preparation that could prove useful. He's back into the flat in a rush. He approaches the problem in a roundabout way, by reiterating his deduction about his flatmate's profession. Army doctor. John needlessly confirms it. Next, he goads him with, "Any Good?".

When John replies, "_Very_ good," Sherlock believes him. This is not a defensive or boastful claim. John is very good at his job. All the better.

Again, Sherlock is indirect, needing to gauge the situation. There's the PTSD and that awful psychosomatic limp (which irks him for reasons unknown) to take into account. "Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths," he adds conversationally. As if he had all the time to stand here and make small talk when there's a serial killer to catch.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," John replies, and it should dampen all his hopes, but these lines – they're honest, in a sense, but there's a tiredness in them, like they're lines he had to repeat too much lately. And they say what it's only proper to say. People do the silliest things because it's the proper thing to do.

Sherlock takes his gamble. "Wanna see some more?" he offers.

John's "God, yes!" is like that of a man who's finally been offered what he was searching for all his life. Sherlock leads him away, with the certainty of being followed, and the presence behind him makes him giddy.

There's a minor hurdle, caused by their landlady, but he's on fever both because of the case and because _John's with him, willingly_, as Teen!Sherlock continues to point out. So maybe his enthusiasm compounds and he's positively exuberant. But he can't be hindered now. When he tells her, "Who cares about decent?" he hopes John will hear him out too. No more_ proper_ answers, please. Let's enjoy this. Together.

When they're in a taxi, he pulls out his mobile phone for want of something – anything – to concentrate on beyond the wonderful, terrifying prospect of having someone by his side. He can't stand the silence, though, (it makes Teen!Sherlock esponentially louder) and he's been evading John's questions since yesterday, so he might as well indulge his flatmate.

The first question, "Where are we going?" is pretty dull, so his answer is laconic. Though he's yet again warmed inside by the evidence that John will follow him without having the faintest idea of where he's leading. Profound, entirely undeserved – at the moment – trust.

"Who are you? What do you do?" John queries next. Sherlock can't help it. He questions back, asking John's hypothesis on the matter. The man has seen his website, after all; he's seen Lestrade. He should be able to make an informed inference.

John's conjecture is private detective, but he's so hesitant about it that it's evident even he doesn't believe it entirely. Sherlock prompts him to expound his objections too.

"The police don't go to private detectives," John points out.

Sherlock then reveals what his actual job is, and explains it for John who, understandably, isn't sure about what it entails. Since Sherlock has created his own career, it's forgiveable.

But then John mortifies him, by objecting, "The police don't consult amateurs".

Hurt, Sherlock glowers at him. Instead of giving him up like any other idiot, or insulting back, he feels the odd urge to prove himself. He does what he never does spontaneously (Lestrade needs much prodding and pleading to make him explain). He doesn't say, "I deduced you just yesterday," he expounds on how he managed to do so. Even knowing it's all so simple when one reveals the trick, knowing John will finally get angry at him for revealing all his life's details in a cab, where the cabbie who necessarily overhears them isn't even a friend like Stamford was. Or maybe he'll say that so, Sherlock just obsesses over meaningless details. The result can never be positive, but he'll be damned if Sherlock doesn't demonstrate to his flatmate that he's no simple amateur.

Even with the mess his feelings are at the moment, he smiles at John during his explanation. His mouth is doing it all on its own, he swears. It's just, looking at John, he can't help himself.

He ends on a half-teasing,half-arrogant note, "You were right – the police don't consult amateurs," but he's nervous. He looks out of the window, waiting for John's awaited outburst, biting his lips to stop himself from adding anything else to fill the uncomfortable silence and indubitably making a bigger fool of himself.

Not for the first time, John proves himself an unique individual. He breathes, "That was amazing."

But he can't mean that, can he? Sherlock turns to look at him, searching signs of sarcasm, but he finds none. Unable to believe what he's told, after a short speechless spell he asks John if he really thinks so. He fully expects a scathing reply.

John, instead, adds only more praise. And he says, "Of course." There's nothing that warrants an of course when the reaction to his deductions isn't negative. Unable to help himself, he points it out. "That's not what people normally say."

When – asked to do so – he reveals the usual reaction to the use of his abilities, carefully choosing it between the most polite and less hurtful things he's heard, he offers another small smile. Turning this into a joke. Understating how terribly momentous it is not to be scorned for his compulsive deducting. Then, the doctor does something as unexpected and as weighty as his praise. He smiles back. At Sherlock. When Sherlock hasn't carefully manipulated him into doing so. "My John," teen Sherlock states with utter conviction from his exile in the attic. When he discovers that his deductions were partially wrong, his teen self gets worried. "Must do better; John won't appreciate us anymore if we get things wrong. I want more of his praise!" he whines. He'd do a great many things for that. He's doomed isn't he?


End file.
